


In the woods

by Jlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221bringyourgun, AU, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fluff, Friendship, Historical Fantasy, Implied Relationships, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Gift Exchange, Werewolf, blizzard, justjohnlockstuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Jlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson had been living in the small cabin on the Moriarty estate most of his life. It was a peaceful and quiet life. Until one night when he went to investigate the strange sounds coming from one of the huntsman Moran's traps.</p>
<p>Werewolf au, written for 221bringyourgun as part of the justjohnlockstuff exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



John waited until nightfall before leaving his small cabin. He was not, strictly speaking, allowed to hunt on the Moriarty lands, but as long as he stayed out of sight and never took more than he needed, the chances of getting caught were negligible. Or so he hoped.  
The full moon was out and as it shone on the newly fallen snow, it seemed almost as bright as day.  
John rarely killed healthy animals these days. The Moriarty huntsman was a lazy sort. He never bothered tracking down wounded animals and he'd often leave traps out for days without checking them. So, the way John saw it, he was really doing everyone a favour. He put the animals out of their misery, and he cleaned up after Moran, so that his employer would not find fault with his work.  
So when John set out that night, he headed for one of Moran's regular places. And sure enough, he soon found a young deer whose leg had been crushed by one of the cruel traps. The poor thing was almost dead from shock and dehydration, having been trapped there for several days by the looks of it.  
John got out his knife and finished its suffering. He could have sworn the animal almost looked grateful when he slit its throat.  
He was about to carry it home when he heard a strange sound. A kind of whimpering, but it did not sound like any of the animals he usually encountered in the woods. In fact, it was a sound he had not heard since his father had lost his trusted hound to an angry boar.  
But what was a dog doing here? Was Moran about? Surely not at this hour.  
He put down the deer and crept in the direction of the sound, as quietly as possible. As he moved into a stand of evergreens, much of the moonlight was blocked out and he almost stumbled over a large root. But then he saw it, lying on the ground in the shadows, under a grand pine tree.  
It was a dog. Very large and, as far as he could make out in the sparse light, completely black. It just lay there, whimpering. As John tried to move around it to get a closer look, it lifted its head, sniffed the air and then growled. But it did not get up, and soon he realised why. It too had been caught in one of Moran's traps. Judging from the angle of the leg, it was not broken, but there was a lot of blood.  
Slowly, John moved closer, not wanting to startle the dog, so that it might try to move and hurt itself even more. He made a small whistling sound and the dog stopped growling and cocked its head.  
”Good boy,” John whispered, catching a glimpse of metal around the dog's neck. A collar or maybe a chain. So it belonged to somebody. He had been afraid that it had been a wild animal, but then again, a tame dog might attack too if it was scared and in pain.  
But as he moved closer, the dog seemed to calm down and just watched him as he bent down to examine its leg. It really wasn't that bad. If he could only get it out of the trap.  
”Now don't you go biting me, okay? I'm only trying to help,” he said to the dog which, to his surprise and amusement, wagged its tail in response.  
Knowing he could not in good conscience leave the animal like this, even if helping it did mean a bit of risk to himself, John took hold of the trap and slowly forced it open. The dog did not move but whimpered slightly as its leg slid free. Once he had secured the trap, John examined the leg. Nothing was broken and the blood was mostly old. But just to be sure, he took his handkerchief out and wrapped it tight over the torn skin.  
”There you go, boy,” he said, standing up. Then he got out his canteen and poured a little water into his palm, offering it to the dog. It sniffed his hand and then licked the water off eagerly. He continued giving it water this way until the canteen was empty. Then he reached out and patted it gently on the head. ”I'm sorry, boy, but that's it,” he said. ”If you can walk on three legs, you should be able to make your way home now. Just don't step in any more traps, okay?”  
The dog watched him intently. It had strange eyes, he thought. Even in the cold, white moonlight they seemed golden. And somehow made him feel like the dog understood every word he said. He ran his hand down along the dog's side and marvelled at the beautiful, thick, black fur. Then he got to his feet and, with a final look at the dog, turned away and walked back to retrieve the deer.  
It began snowing again, thick and fast, but John hardly noticed, lost in thoughts. That dog... It had been really large. And with its pointed ears and nose he might have thought it was a wolf if it hadn't been for the collar and the way it had behaved. So calm and... trusting. It was clearly a tame animal. And not just a guard dog or hound. That beautiful creature must surely be somebody's pet.  
…  
When John got home, he skinned the deer and cut up the meat so it was ready to be smoked the next day. Finally, after a brief meal of bread and cheese, he crawled into bed and was almost instantly asleep.  
Only to be woken, not an hour later, by a strange scratching sound at the door. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking to see in the dim light of the embers in the fireplace. Picking up his gun he moved as quietly to the door as possible and laid his ear to the wood to listen.  
The soft whimpering was only too familiar and, shaking his head but smiling, he opened the door.  
”Don't you have a home to go to?” he asked, as the large black dog limped inside and flopped down in front of the fireplace with a suffering groan.  
”You can't stay here,” John said, closing the door and moving over to put some more wood on the fire. ”I barely have enough food for myself and I really don't need a dog.”  
The animal looked up at him, raising one eyebrow as if to indicate that what John wanted really wasn't relevant.  
In spite of himself, John bent down to pat the large black head and then, sighing in resignation, went over to get a hunk of cold meat he had been saving for his breakfast.  
”Here you go,” he said, placing it in front of the dog. ”You can stay for the night, but then you’ve got to go. Okay?”  
The dog tilted its head to one side as it looked up at him. It seemed almost like a shrug. Then it began eating.  
John watched it for a moment before hurrying back to his warm bed, snuggling down between the many layers of pelts. He lay there for a long time, listening to the dog gnawing on the tough meat. But finally he managed to go back to sleep.  
...  
When he woke up, he felt warmer than he had since the leaves had started to turn. He yawned and rolled over, almost getting a mouthful of coarse black fur. Spluttering, he sat up and stared down at the dog that was taking up more than half of his bed. No... Not a dog... In the light of day, he saw that his brief suspicion had been correct. It was a wolf. A gigantic, pitch black wolf.  
An gigantic, pitch black, snoring wolf.  
Not taking his eyes off the animal, John scrambled out of the bed and stumbled over to the table, picking up his gun. As he aimed shakily, the wolf opened a single amber eye and looked at him calmly.  
John hesitated. Reason told him that he should shoot, but he just couldn't. The animal had, after all, spent most of the night in his cabin... in his bed... and it had not harmed him. Nor had it tried to bite him or been threatening in any way when he had been freeing it from the trap in the woods. And it must have been in a considerable amount of pain then.  
The animal had proven repeatedly that it was no danger to him. How could he bring himself to harm it now?  
Still shaking, John put down the gun and then, suddenly feeling lightheaded, he had to sit down. The wolf raised its head and yawned. Then it stretched, groaned and curled up, apparently going back to sleep.  
”Right...” John muttered, chuckling in spite of himself. ”Make yourself comfortable.”  
…  
Not knowing what else to do, John went about his usual morning routine. After breakfast, he went out to bring in wood for the fire, then swept the floor and cleaned his gun. The wolf had not stirred and at times he almost forgot about it.  
But a few minutes after he had gone outside to get the smoke oven ready for last night's catch, he heard it scratching at the door. Ignoring the lump of fear that was trying to block his throat, John went over and opened the door.  
The wolf bolted past him and headed straight for the nearest tree.  
John laughed and returned to his work. Soon he was joined by the wolf, who sat down in the snow, watching him. John smiled at it and then noticed the chain around its neck again. The thing he had seen gleaming in the moonlight the night before. It was very fine. Probably silver. It was definitely not strong enough to hold the animal, so it must be ornamental. A sign of ownership.  
”So you are a tame wolf,” he said. ”I wonder who you belong to.”  
The wolf cocked its head, clearly listening to what he was saying.  
”I bet it's someone rich and powerful,” John said. ”A beautiful creature like you. Maybe the young Lord? Is Moriarty your master?”  
Suddenly the wolf was on its feet, hackles raised as it snarled at him.  
John gasped, for a second sure that this was it. Now was the moment he was going to die.  
But the wolf did not attack. It barked once and then sat down again, its eyes still glinting with anger.  
”Oh...” John said. ”You don't like Lord Moriarty? Well, I can't say I blame you. He's a very unpleasant fellow.”  
The wolf seemed to calm down and when John tossed it a bone that still had some meat on it, it lay down and began gnawing with a satisfied grunt.  
…  
The wolf stayed. All day as John went about his business, it watched him, never getting in his way but also not letting him out of its sight. By late afternoon when dusk set in, John had accepted its presence, figuring he might as well let it stay for as long as it wanted to. Next time he went to the village he could ask around. Try to figure out where it came from.  
When John went to bed, the wolf lay curled up by the fire, but in the morning, he did not have to open his eyes to know that the large animal had joined him on the bed. With a resigned grunt, John rolled over and snuggled closer to the wolf, figuring he might as well take advantage of his warm and soft bedfellow.  
Days passed this way. The wolf, which John began calling Shade, would watch him work all day, but didn’t join him when he went out to hunt. Figuring that this was probably for the best, John left it in the cabin with a bowl of water and a bone to gnaw.  
It was surprisingly pleasant to have someone to return to, he found. Shade had been dozing by the fire, but jumped up, his tail wagging, when John opened the door. It padded over to him and sniffed the two rabbits hanging from his belt.  
John laughed. ”Oh no, you don't,” he said. ”Let me skin them first, okay, big fellow?”  
Shade sat down and looked at him expectantly as if to say: 'Well, what are you waiting for?'  
On the sixth day after Shade had moved in with him, John was startled by a hard knock on the door. The only people who ever visited him here were villagers when they needed his help with wounds or illness. But they never ventured into the woods in the winter. Unless it was very, very urgent.  
John got to his feet, but suddenly Shade jumped between him and the door, growling softly.  
John frowned. ”Easy, boy,” he said, patting the wolf on the head. ”There's nothing to worry about. Let me open the door.”  
But Shade would not move, looking intently up at John as if trying to tell him something.  
The knock sounded again.  
”Now stop this,” John said, pushing Shade aside. ”Someone could be hurt. Maybe they need my help.”  
Whimpering, Shade moved and then, suddenly, bolted across the cabin and crawled under the bed.  
John sighed and then lifted the latch and opened the door.  
Moran was a very large man, and he towered over John as he glared around his cabin. ”Have you been messing with my traps, Watson?” he growled.  
John willed himself to remain calm as he looked up at the huntsman. ”Of course not,” he said. ”I am perfectly capable of catching my own food.”  
”I'm not talking about food,” Moran snarled. ”I'm talking about a beast. A big black menace that has been killing fowl and scaring the women up at the manor. I'd been tracking the thing about a week back but lost its trail in the last snowfall. Except... I like to place my traps by trees and such. So they won't get covered up. And I found blood on one of them. And paw prints. And... something that looked suspiciously like a human had sat there. A small, meddling, poaching hermit, by the looks of it.”  
Moran took a step closer to John, trying to bully his way into the cabin. But John stood his ground.  
”You have no right to enter here,” he snapped. ”Lord Moriarty owes his life to my father and I have his word that this cabin is my domain. Now get yourself gone. I have not seen your wolf.”  
Moran glared at him and then looked around the small room. Then he harrumphed, turned and stomped away.  
John closed the door and quickly moved over to sit on a chair. His hands were trembling and he felt slightly dizzy. It was true that Moriarty had granted him permission to stay in his father's old cabin. And that the young lord would have died shortly after birth had it not been for his father's aid. But John doubted the gratitude extended to denying Moriarty's man entrance to his cabin. Moran would take this to the lord and then he would be back. With more men, probably. And hounds. And guns.  
”Shade,” John called. ”You can come out now. The man is gone.”  
Whimpering, the wolf crawled out from under the bed and trotted over to John, resting its head in his lap, looking up at him with those beautiful amber eyes.  
John sighed. ”You have to leave,” he said. ”Moran is looking for you. He'll be back.”  
The wolf whined softly.  
”Tonight,” John said. ”I'll take you to the edge of the grounds. If you can make it across the river you'll be off Moriarty's lands and you'll be safe. Maybe you could head up north. I think there are more of your kind in the highlands than down here.”  
Shade sighed and John stroked its head softly. ”I know,” he said. ”I wish you could stay too. But it's not safe for you, if Moran is out to get you.”  
John spent the rest of the day indoors, packing a small bag for the track through the woods and mending his coat and trousers. But when he went outside to get his snowshoes, he saw that it had begun snowing again. Rather fortunate, he supposed. The snow would be covering up their tracks, making it less likely that they would be followed by Moran or any of his men.  
But an hour later, as John was getting his pack ready, he looked out the window and realised that the light snowfall was quickly turning into a blizzard.  
”No...” he groaned and hurried to the door. He could barely open it against the force of the wind and then had to close it immediately to keep out the snow that was whirling through the air so thickly he could see nothing but white. He turned to look at the wolf. ”I'm sorry, Shade,” he said. ”I guess we won't be going anywhere tonight. Good news is, that Moran will not be able to return before this blows over.”  
The wolf wagged its tail once and padded over to lay down in front of the fire.  
”Oh, bugger,” John huffed, as he noticed how small the pile of wood leaning on the wall had gotten during the day. Expecting not to be home for a while, he had neglected to bring in more wood. With a groan, he put on his thick winter coat and then wrapped himself up in several scarves before stepping into his large boots.  
As he forced the door open again, he felt something pushing past him. He reached down and grabbed the chain. ”No, Shade,” he said. ”You don't want to be outside in this. Go back to the fire.”  
But for once, the wolf did not obey. And a few seconds later, John was exceedingly grateful for this. Without the large animal to hang on to, he seriously doubted that he would have been able to make it over to the pile of firewood. He managed to dig out a large stack, almost more than he could carry. Then he turned to head back to the cabin, only to realise that he could no longer see it in the whirling snow and fading light. And though he had walked this short stretch back and forth every day of his life since he'd first been able to carry kindling for his mother, he suddenly found himself unsure as to the correct direction.  
His blood ran cold as he looked around. He could not stay out here. The small lean-to, while sufficient to keep his firewood relatively dry, did not provide any kind of protection against the wind or the cold. But if he got it wrong... If he walked by the cabin, he would be helplessly lost. He'd wander the woods until he dropped dead from the cold. Which wouldn't take long by the looks of it.  
Then he glimpsed a dark shape in front of him. ”Shade?” he called, and was answered by a muffled howl. He took a few steps forward, but Shade retreated, it seemed. Could it be? Was the wolf, by some sense keener than any he possessed, able to find the way back to the cabin? Whether it was or not, it seemed to be John’s only hope, so he followed the wolf as best he could. Whenever he hesitated, the wolf would howl, urging him on, and sooner than he had expected, he saw a larger darkness ahead and then he almost walked into the wall of his cabin.  
Crying out with relief, he dropped the pile of wood and pulled the door open. ”Get in,” he told the wolf and then followed it, kicking the wood in front of him, not caring about the pile of snow that fell inside with it. Once the door was closed, he hurried over to the fire and then began shedding his snow-encrusted clothes.  
Shade sat next to him, more white than black, his fur sparkling with the icy crystals. But soon the heat of the fire turned him back to his normal colour and he shook himself, spraying John with tiny, icy drops of water.  
”Hey, watch it!” John complained, but he couldn't help laughing with sheer relief at his narrow escape. ”I guess we're even now,” he told Shade. ”I saved you and now you saved me.”  
Shade looked up at him and it almost seemed like he nodded his head.  
John frowned, but then decided he was imagining things. ”Are you hungry?” he said. ”I'm hungry.”  
He went over to the cupboard and got out some dried ham and cheese. He prepared a cold supper, making sure to give Shade a little more than usual, to show the wolf his gratitude. After he had finished, he moved all the wood over close to the fire so it could dry, wiped up most of the water from where the snow had melted in front of the door and then, stripping off the outer layers of clothes, crawled into bed.  
”Get up here,” he told Shade. ”You'll crawl in anyway, and tonight I need you to keep me warm.”  
The wolf did not need to be told twice, and soon they were snuggled up together, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.  
…  
John woke from a strange and cold dream to the sound of frightened whimpers. First he thought Moran might have returned after all, but then he realised that Shade was still sleeping. The wolf was writhing in its sleep, whining and moaning. There was something strange and awkward about its movements.  
Then John saw that it had somehow gotten one of its paws caught in the chain. Almost as if it had been trying to work the thing off. He reached over and tried to free the paw, but Shade winced and rolled away from him. Then, for the first time, John noticed the clasp, holding the chain closed at the back of Shade's neck. Figuring he'd better help the wolf before it injured itself, he took hold of the clasp and snapped it open.  
The chain fell off Shade's neck onto the bed and John pulled it away from the wolf to study it. It was a very fine chain. Definitely silver. It had no markings, except on the clasp where there was a small symbol that might be an H or perhaps an M.  
Then John noticed that Shade had calmed down and, with a mighty yawn, he put the chain down on the floor next to the bed and immediately went back to sleep.  
…  
Something was different. Very, very different. John sensed it without even opening his eyes. He could feel the mass of Shade's body next to him, but it didn't feel right. Longer. And the sound of the wolf's breathing, by now all too familiar to him, had changed. Its breaths were slower and more shallow. Then Shade turned over with a grunt that did not sound like the wolf at all and John almost screamed as he felt a long, strong, very human arm settle across his chest.  
He opened his eyes and stared. For a moment he thought he was looking at Shade's side, but then he realised that the black mess was not coarse fur, but soft, wavy curls. Curls falling down over the forehead and eyes of the pale man lying next to him, snoring gently.  
It took several seconds for this to truly register. Then John pulled away with a gasp. He lost his balance and tumbled off the bed, quickly scrambling away on all four. When he reached the other side of the cabin, he got to his feet slowly, not taking his eyes of the stranger in his bed.  
He was extremely pale. To such a degree that if John had not heard him breathing, he might have believed him dead. He had a narrow face with sharply defined features. His dark hair was long and fine and his torso was, as far as John could tell, bare under the furs. He could make out the man's ribs and collarbones under the skin.  
Who was this man? And what was he doing in John's bed? How had he gotten into the bed without waking John? And where was Shade? Why hadn't the wolf woken him up when the stranger had entered the cabin?  
Slowly John walked towards the bed, studying the sleeping man. He looked so peaceful. Almost like a statue. Or a painting like the ones John had seen up at the manor, the few times that his father had brought him along. Yes, he did in fact look very much like those paintings. He looked... noble...  
John suddenly realised that he had been staring at the man for much too long. He turned away and began pacing the cabin, wondering what to do. What was going on here? Was it some kind of magic? Or was he still asleep? Dreaming?  
As he glanced over at the man, he realised that his eyes were now open and he was studying John with calm but intent curiosity.  
”I like the colour of your hair,” he said, his voice deep and rough.  
John gasped and fumbled for his gun. As he aimed it at the stranger, the man smiled.  
”Is that how you usually bid people good morning?” he asked. ”Or is it just me?”  
John frowned. ”Wh... What...?” he managed.  
”Well,” the man said, sitting up slowly. ”It is, after all, the second time I wake up to the sight of that weapon pointing straight at me.”  
John shook his head. ”No...” he said. ”That can't be. I've never seen you before in my life. Who are you?”  
The man shivered and pulled the large bed fur closer around his skinny body. ”I'm Sherlock William Scott Holmes. Son of Lord Holmes and younger brother to the king's councillor.” He sighed and shook his head. ”That probably means nothing to you. You know me by another name.” He looked straight at John, and for a moment John was completely lost in the strange pale green colour of his eyes, but then the man blinked and his eyes turned a dark amber.  
”Shade,” the man said and John gasped. It was a lie. A man could not be a wolf. Despite the strangeness of his appearance in John's bed, there had to be another explanation. Except... Those were definitely, unquestionably, the eyes of the black wolf.  
Before he realised what he was doing, John fired the gun and then whirled around and ran for the door.  
It was still dark outside and the snow was coming down harder than ever. But the wind had ceased and the woods were as still as the grave. Dressed only in his nightshirt and socks, John was shivering immediately, but he still bolted from the cabin, not caring where he was going as long as it was away from the unnaturalness within.  
He made it almost to the lean-to, when he slipped in the snow and fell. He landed on a thick tree trunk and had all the air knocked out of him. He rolled over and felt himself sink slowly into the snow, his body already growing numb. All he could see where the white flecks whirling above him, reflecting the light from the still open door to his cabin, only a few feet away.  
His eyes began to close and the last thing he saw was a dark shadow, blocking out what little light there was left in the world. Then he sank into unconsciousness.  
…  
He was warm. In fact, it felt like his hands and feet were on fire. He tried to move, but couldn't. His arms were crossed over his chest and he seemed to be bound. Or rather wrapped tight in something large enough to cover his entire body. He took in a deep breath and then screamed as a sharp pain shot through his chest.  
Immediately there was movement next to him and then a hand on his forehead.  
”Oh, good. You're awake. I got you inside as fast as I could, but I feared you were already too far gone,” a deep, soft voice said.  
John blinked a couple of times and the soft orange haze slowly sorted itself into the inside of his cabin, lit by a roaring fire. And there, leaning in over him, was the man. Sherlock. Shade.  
He screamed again and tried to pull away, with the result that he almost fell off the bed.  
Sherlock caught him and steadied him. ”Don't move,” he said. ”I've got you wrapped in every fur and blanket I could find.” He chuckled. A strange but pleasant sound. ”Hang on. I'll free you.”  
As he carefully unwrapped John's arms and shoulders, John realised that Sherlock was now dressed. In John's clothes, it seemed. The sleeves of John's extra tunic were not nearly long enough to cover Sherlock's arms and he suspected that several inches of ankle must be showing too, but could not see it from this position.  
As Sherlock helped him to sit up, he realised that the tunic was stained with blood on the left side.  
”Did... Did I hit you?” he asked and then realised that he was no longer terrified of the man. Sherlock still made him nervous and there was clearly something magical about him, if he was truly both man and wolf, but he had saved him. He had gone out into the snow and fetched John. After John had shot him.  
Sherlock shrugged, taking one of John's hands in his and examining it. ”You just grazed me,” he said. ”It's already healing. I'll be fine.”  
”Already healing?” John asked. ”How long have I been sleeping?”  
”Most of the day,” Sherlock said, then noticed John's incredulous look. ”I'm a fast healer,” he said. ”As long as you don't pierce my skin with silver, that is.”  
”Silver...” Something stirred in John's memory, then he gasped. ”The chain...”  
Sherlock nodded. ”Yes. The chain. I cannot thank you enough for removing the cursed thing.”  
”Cursed...?” John leaned over the edge of the bed and looked down on the floor. The chain was gone.  
”Cursed,” Sherlock repeated. ”Put on me by enemies of my brother to control me.”  
”It... It turned you into a wolf?” John asked. It sounded insane, but no more so than the rest of what he was facing today.  
Sherlock chuckled again. ”Oh no. I've been a wolf most of my life. Not all the time, mind you. Just around the full moon. And when hiding from my brother.” He picked up a bundle of cloth from the table. One of John's scarves it seemed. ”But the chain bound me. Forced me to stay wolf. And it clouded my thinking. I'm not sure how long they kept me there. Locked up in the cellar.”  
”Who did?” John managed to ask.  
Instead of answering, Sherlock tossed the cloth to him. Frowning, John unwrapped it and found the chain inside. He looked up, but before he could phrase his question, Sherlock answered it:  
”The clasp,” he said. ”It's right there.”  
John turned the chain over and once again saw the engraved letter. It was definitely an M.  
”Lord Moriarty did this to you?” he said. ”You've been up at the manor all this time?”  
Sherlock nodded. ”I'd only just managed to escape when I got myself caught in that trap. I thought I was dead for sure when you came along. You freed me. Twice. I can never repay you for that.”  
John was about to protest. To say that he did not need any kind of payment for doing the decent thing, but then he noticed that Sherlock was trembling.  
”Are you okay?” he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand up.  
Sherlock gestured for him to stay. ”I'm fine,” he said. ”I just feel a little faint. It's perfectly normal. Healing takes a lot of energy.”  
John got to his feet and took a few steps closer. ”Have you had anything to eat?” he asked. ”While you've been watching over me?”  
Sherlock smiled sheepishly and shook his head.  
”Christ,” John muttered and went over to the cupboard. There wasn't much food left, but he still managed to put together a decent supper for them.  
It was odd, sitting there eating bread, cold ham and apples with a man who used to be a wolf. Who had been spellbound by a nobleman to be used against the king's councillor. It sounded like something out of a fancy tale, but here he was. Large as life.  
They ate in silence and then John threw in as many logs as he could fit on the fire. He went to look out the window.  
”The wind has started again,” he said. ”I guess Moran won't be coming by tonight either.”  
Sherlock shook his head. ”But as soon as the blizzard has passed, I must go. I have to get to my brother. Let him know that I am no longer in their hands. That he must not let them force him to act in any way that could harm the crown.”  
John nodded. ”I understand,” he said. ”I... I'll help you. Go with you.”  
”Oh no,” Sherlock said. ”There's no reason for you to get any more involved. It will be dangerous.”  
John grinned at this. ”I could use some danger in my life. And some purpose.”  
Sherlock smiled and they stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Then John cleared his throat and looked away. ”I... I guess we should sleep,” he said. ”If we're heading out tomorrow. You can take the bed, I'll just put a couple of furs down here by the fire.”  
”Don't be silly,” Sherlock said, reaching out to put his hand on John's shoulder. ”We've been sharing your bed for a week now. And you know we'll both be more comfortable, sharing our body heat.”  
John couldn't argue with that, but he felt very awkward as they settled into the bed together. It was large enough. He had shared it with his parents when he was a child. But still. They were pretty close. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek, and sense the heat of his body right next to him.  
He lay for a long while, staring up at the ceiling, trying to wrap his mind around all that had happened. None of it seemed real. He half expected to wake up at any moment.  
He turned his head to look at Sherlock and found that his eyes were still open.  
”I thought you were sleeping,” he said, turning onto his side to face him. ”Surely you need rest as much as you needed food.”  
Sherlock smiled. ”I was just wondering,” he said.  
”About what?” John asked.  
”About you. Why you have been so kind to me. Taking me in and accepting me.”  
”I shot you,” John said with a snort.  
Sherlock grinned. ”Yes, well, apart from that. You are a really remarkable man, John Watson. I was very fortunate that you found me.” He reached over and put his hand on John's cheek.  
John tensed. He was not used to being touched. And he had surely never been touched like this. Not since he was a small boy and his mother had been tucking him in, singing him to sleep. Suddenly tears welled up in his eyes as he, for the first time ever, truly felt the loneliness of his life here in the woods. He'd never even known how desperately he needed the closeness of another.  
”Shush,” Sherlock whispered gently. ”It's okay. Don't cry.”  
But John couldn't stop and suddenly he found himself wrapped tightly in Sherlock's arms, crying into his chest.  
”I'm sorry,” Sherlock whispered. ”I did not mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know how grateful I am. How much I owe you.”  
”You... You don't owe me anything...” John gasped, his voice muffled. ”My life has been so much better since you showed up. Even as a wolf... And now...” He couldn't continue, not even sure himself what he meant.  
He pulled away a little and looked up at Sherlock, seeing understanding in his eyes.  
”I'm glad you're coming with me,” Sherlock admitted. ”I couldn't bear the thought of leaving you behind.”


End file.
